


Go Ahead and Take a Number

by GwiYeoWeo



Series: ignoct week 2k19 [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alpha!Ignis, Courtship, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Slow Burn, Trope Subversion, implications of abo without the sex basically lmao, omega!Noctis, then freestyling it cause yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 23:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20034319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: Simple: ComfortSituational: Marriage proposals or getting permission to courtWhen the world caught news the Lucian Prince was finally ready for courtship, dozens of kingdoms and twice as many noble houses sent their sons and daughters to Insomnia, all in hopes of worming their way into royalty and alliances — and all in vain.Ignis Scientia is the 25th suitor, the 25th Alpha out of hundreds to actually pass the Council’s background checks, but he doesn’t hold much hope or expectations. Yet unlike the whispers that claim the Prince to be a meek and shy little thing, he learns Noctis Lucis Caelum is made of tempered fire and a spark of lightning.And that’s not even the half of it.





	Go Ahead and Take a Number

**Author's Note:**

> it's ignoct week my dudes ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/  
i always wanted to try an abo fic with a different spin to it

“It shan’t hurt to try, boy,” his aunt had said, patting down the lapels of his suit and neatly tucking the pocket square at his breast. She had given him a quick once-over, turning him this way and that to make sure not a single crease or ball of lint escaped her sharp eye, then let the attendant usher him into the car, sent by the Citadel itself. “Twenty-four ladies and gentlemen turned and gone, but who says you won’t be the one to please him?”

‘_The twenty-four who were rejected,’ _ he hadn't said.

Ignis Scientia sits in the backseat, the partition up and separating his small space and the driver’s — at his request — and he fiddles with the thin metal band on his left middle finger. The black ring is an accomplishment and an infuriating thing all at once. As simple as it is, no gem or jewel aside from the thin line of silver cutting around it, it’s the mark of approval every Alpha across Eos has been salivating for, given to only twenty-four — no, twenty-five individuals thus far. A glimmer of hope, a peak at a distant dream, that the suitor will be the one to win the Prince’s hand. 

And yet, it sits just one finger away from where every rejected courter wishes it to be. It’s a mocking thing, teasing with that faint sliver of what would be a black ring adorned with a piece of the Crystal itself, and it may as well burn his finger from where it wraps around. He can feel the faint pulse of magic ingrained into the metalwork, a measurement of authenticity to verify his identity once he passes through the Citadel’s gates, but it feels like a hefty shackle better suited for his wrist instead. 

When his parents had suggested he try for the Prince’s hand, he waved it off as a tedious effort he had no time for. The vetting process, the background checks, interviews, all of it a string of paperwork and nonsense he wasn’t privy to. It _ was a joke _ when he had said he’d do it only if they could magically do the pre-work for him. 

He hadn’t expected his entire family to work through the fine print and bring in their government connections to land him a slot as the next suitor, no signature or interview required.

Ignis knows, in his early days of far-gone youth and blurry times of childhood, he had visited the Citadel exactly twice before, once in a school field trip and once under the guidance of his uncle. (He also knows, his uncle must have had a hand in all this, being in the Council’s ranks and all.) But he remembers them as portraits painted in watercolors, smudged and foggy where they cross and bleed into each other, and not as the towering pillars of stark steel and sharp glass he stands before. He thinks there was a boy involved, something about getting lost in the maze of a modern palace and getting rescued by a child several years younger. 

He cranes his head as far back as his neck is willing, shadowing a hand over his eyes and admiring the four towers and the halo of the sun just above them. 

It’s intimidating, and though he’s never considered himself one of low-esteem or confidence, he feels his existence a small thing when juxtaposed to the grand scheme of it all. He still doesn’t believe he’ll be the one to win over the Prince’s heart — has no plans to, really, because the weight of royalty has no place in his life — but he’ll try. He hates to put his family’s efforts to waste or toss their name into the dirt for some unsightly display of his character, so at the very least, he’ll humor the fantasy of being lucky number twenty-five. 

There’s no fanfare, no special carpet rolled out to meet him, and he follows his guide up and into the Citadel. It’s silent, except for the footsteps that echo off the marble floors and walls, and he tries not to let the grand architecture and careful stares of the guards distract him. When he walks down the aisle into the audience chamber, he expects to see the great King and his son at the throne, flanked by their corresponding Shields and perhaps some Council members. But there’s no one, not a single soul to look down upon him and judge his entire worth with a single glance or quiet snide, no King or Prince to give their approval or lack thereof. 

Just as Ignis wonders if they’ve all gotten the date wrong or if some poor attendant got all their schedules mixed, he catches the shake and sigh of his guide. 

“Like father, like son,” she mutters in her breath, shoulders going slack for just a moment before straightening out again. In that short window of weakness, she looked like an employee whose work deserved more than her current paygrade. “I think they’re in the greenhouse. This way, please.”

A walk through some corridors and long-winding hallways plus a trip in the elevators is how Ignis finds out the Royal family likes to keep a make-shift greenhouse on one of the upper levels. The corner of the southeast tower is made entirely of glass with just enough steel for structural support, and he tries his hardest to keep to the gravel path and avoid stepping on the overgrowth and crawling leaves. 

He also meets both King and Prince in _ very _ casual attire and elbows deep in damp soil. King Regis’ white shirt has probably seen better, crisper days and without dirt stains, and Ignis never thought he’d see His Majesty wearing tan cargo shorts surrounded by bags of dirt and half-potted plants. 

The same goes to Highness Noctis Lucis Caelum, who wears black sweats and a loose fitting tank top wet with either sweat or water or both, his hair losing whatever styling that’s been done to it. There’s dirt on his cheek, and Ignis has enough sense to _ not _ offer his handkerchief. 

Ignis had kept an open mind to how their first impressions would go, though he expected at least a formal audience in the throne room, but meeting a literally dirty prince struggling with a trowel and ripping straight through a bag of soil was not a scenario he accounted for. As the bag falls apart and the soil with it, accompanied by an amused King Regis at the expense of his son’s mishap, so does Ignis’ handful of plans on what-if’s and how-to’s. 

News outlets and tabloids, despite the exaggerations and far-off conspiracies, hold at least a modicum of truth; every rumor has to start off with some sort of foundation based on fact, after all. The media is a ravenous thing, always looking for the next big scoop, and Prince Noctis had been a treasure trove for the entertainment industry for the past year, ever since His Majesty declared his hand was available for marriage. 

An Omega prince, easy for anyone with a sliver of sensibility and a decent amount of charm to woo. Meek and mild, soft and ripe for an Alpha’s taking; a bit shy, but that’s just the allure of a shrinking violet, ready to bloom in all his brilliance once he found his dearest betrothed, they all said. Something of a recluse, ever since the daemon attack that traumatized the poor thing, with only the rare appearance on official holidays and always with his guards at the ready. And whenever Prince Noctis did appear in public, oh how the cameras would shutter, snapping like the ravenous teeth of the paparazzi. Articles would sing with praise of how handsome and fine the young heir had become, or go on tangents on his fair skin “from keeping himself within the Citadel’s safe walls, ever since the tragic daemon attack that almost took our young Prince’s life.” 

He was the rendition of the tragic beauty in those popular novels Ignis’ aunts raved about. 

Except, looking at him now, this soft boy the world claimed him to be, Ignis thought him anything but. He’s dirty, covered in grime and dust and with an easy grin plastered onto his face, his hair sticking every which way it can with sprinklings of what look to be seeds, and Ignis sees the faint beginnings of tan lines around his shoulders where his tank top doesn’t cover. 

The guide clears her throat, earning a quick snap of their eyes, Prince Noctis looking up from his hands where he was salvaging the spilled soil, King Regis from his son. 

“Your Majesty, Your Highness,” she says calmly, but Ignis is sure he hears that barest hint of reprimand in her tone. “I present Ignis Scientia.”

On reflex, he places a hand over his chest and bows from the waist up. 

“That was today?” both King and Prince say in unison. 

Ignis won’t lie, that stings a bit. He didn’t expect fanfare or any grand announcement of his arrival, but to be forgotten so easily… Well, at least he has thick skin. 

His guide, though, at least channels some of his sentiments through a huff of exasperation. “_ Yes, it was. _”

Ignis straightens up to see Prince Noctis looking not even a fraction guilty, though his father has the decency to appear apologetic — if only just a little. Regis offers his condolences, speaking something of time slipping away and how distractions came into play, but Ignis doesn’t hear much of it with how all his attention zeroes in on the younger Caelum. 

By all means, Prince Noctis should be looking more like a labor worker with the dirt and sweat smeared all over him, but there is no denying the charm and fine features he sports; there is something _ exquisite _ beneath that layer of grime, a certain allure no luxury beauty cream or high-end perfume could ever hope to replicate. That always belonged to the royal houses of Eos, and it could very well be a testament to his long-running pedigree. Despite the scents of soil and flowers and fertilizer, Ignis can catch the distinct aroma of an Omega — soft but subtle and surprisingly comforting. 

Even King Regis, despite the drain of the Crystal and his graying hair, that looks more like finely spun platinum, has aged like fine Tenebraean wine and still looks absolutely regal despite his questionable attire. 

Just. 

The near _ predatory _ gaze Prince Noctis criticizes Ignis with is unnerving. That sharp eye and oppressing aura, the commanding presence that _ demands and orders _ with sharp teeth and fire, all belongs to an Alpha and not to an Omega who apparently likes to garden in his free time. (The gardening part makes sense, something out of sprucing up a home, a nod toward domesticity and all that.)

Immediately he thinks his brain must be playing tricks on him. There's another Alpha here, sizing him up and seeing if he's suitable to court the Prince, somewhere hidden within all the green and glass. No way this soft and timid Omega is putting such pressure out, setting him on edge as if a threat lurks just around the corner. But no matter how hard he tries, Ignis can't scent another Alpha out. 

He barely catches the last of the King’s rules, the guidelines under which Ignis is allowed to court the Prince. 

“…One calendar month. Your room, while not within the same hallway, will be on the same floor as my son’s. Monica will take you to your quarters to familiarize yourself, but you are free to help yourself to whatever amenities afterwards.” 

Ignis is sure the “amenities” do not include secret vaults and restricted areas and that there will be guards lurking around every corner to keep eyes on him. He has nothing to hide, though, and no interest in deep dark family secrets to sniff out and sell to the press or hold as blackmail against the King himself. 

He hopes he wasn’t caught staring like an arba in headlights and bows once more toward the King, then to the Prince, and utters his sincerest thanks for the opportunity and accommodations. 

Yet even as he leaves, the skin of his neck prickles under that same cutting gaze, feeling the threat of broken glass aimed at his turned back and ready to strike at his vital points. He half expects a sword to run itself through him, but nothing ever comes. All he hears is the crinkle of that soil bag and the scrape of a trowel. 

His guide — named Monica, it seems — takes him to the elevators once more and they rise a few more levels up. When she drops him off to his assigned room, he wonders where on this floor the Prince must live in but clamps his mouth shut before he has the chance to ask. If he was privy to that information, he’s sure that would have been mentioned. So he shares a word of gratitude to Monica at the door, closes it behind him, and sinks into the oversized armchair by the decorative fireplace. 

It's early spring, but he thinks to toss in a few logs and light it up, just to melt the lingering chill of that gaze he _ still _ feels. When he strikes the match and coaxes the embers to life, and the goosebumps on his skin have yet to settle, he dares a conjecture: that the reason the twenty-four suitors failed laid not in any shortcomings of their own but in some aspect of the Prince himself. 

Ignis spent his first day familiarizing himself with the Citadel, or at least, the few levels above and below him. He never gave much thought to how or why they needed so many floors and four towering skyscrapers to do whatever business they do, but after having caught a glimpse of just what happens within these gilded walls, he has a sort of understanding. Much of the staff, he learned, live within the Citadel — from the maids and cooks to guards and secretaries. 

There’s also an entire floor dedicated to just office cubicles. He had immediately pressed for the lobby when his elevator doors opened to reveal the hectic mania of flying documents and screaming office phones and the sound of at least five keyboards breaking simultaneously. It had been a painting of utter chaos and coffee mugs being chucked over dividers and across printing machines, and never faster had Ignis nope’d out of a place before. 

So after spending the first day avoiding the Prince, he isn’t surprised when a manservant knocks at his door, delivering an invitation to join His Highness for some light brunch. He accepts, because who is he to refuse royalty?

When he steps inside, a corner room with a fantastic view of the kingdom below, the hairs on his neck go rigid and cold under that familiar pressure. He feels that look again, that oppressive gaze of a lion sizing up a rabbit, and Ignis tries his best to keep his wits about him. His Alpha brain wants to snap back, to curl his lips and bare his fangs right back, to demand his due respect because who _ dares _ to size him up and challenge him. But before his instincts go too far, he pummels them back down with a hammer. There’s no other Alpha here, Ignis reminds himself. 

Just an Omega prince.

Which, really, isn’t any better. Because Prince Noctis is staring right at him, unflinching and unblinking, his hands waiting neatly in his lap. There’s nothing to read from his expression, as blank and indifferent as it looks; but besides the weight he fills the room with, there is something _ ominous _ in his unrelenting watch. 

Either Ignis spends too much time grasping at his thoughts or the Prince doesn’t like him just dawdling at the doorway, but whichever it is, it’s enough to get him to speak. “Sit down, don’t just stand there.” 

It’s as good as an order as any, but there’s no bite to his tone where Ignis expected one.

He sits across from him, and tries his best at normalcy. “Prince Noctis, thank you for the invitation.”

“It’s the least I could do, especially after yesterday. Like dad said, we lost track of time.”

Prince Noctis finally drops his eyes to survey the dishes spread on the table, much to Ignis’ relief. The tension dissipates as soon as he picks up a fork to push his food around, neatly separating his eggs from the edge of a french toast. 

Ignis takes that as his cue to follow, and he cuts his knife through an eggs benedict. They both take their first bites in silence, nothing but quiet chewing and soft clinks of silverware and glass, but he’ll take it over the smothering and suffocating pressure from earlier. (What even is that anyway? Did he somehow manage to piss off His Highness already? Gods.)

Yet he’s the first one to break the silence.. “This sauce is delightful. I wonder if I could weasel the recipe out of the chefs.”

“Oh, so you cook?”

Ignis expected a bored hum of acknowledgment or anything less than even that, so he’s pleasantly surprised to hear the interest in Prince Noctis’ voice. He glances up and sees His Highness looking right at him, and for a brief moment, he expects that same soul-piercing weight to drill right through. This time, there’s nothing but genuine curiosity — no bite or guarded edge accompanying. He also notices the air in the room has gotten lighter. 

Huh.

Ignis wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he takes the opportunity for what it is and tries to keep this new flow going. “Yes, though I’m particularly fond of baking.”

“You bake?”

If the Prince looked curious before, he now looks almost impressed. There’s the smallest semblance of a smile peeking out, the corner of his mouth tilting ever so slightly upward, maybe out of amusement. Or out of incredulity. Ignis doesn’t know.

“Yes. It may seem odd. An Alpha who enjoys domestic things like baking. I enjoy learning new recipes, the satisfaction of trying a new dish, the smell of spices and sweets and whatnot. Quite relaxing.”

Certainly, there are Alphas who make for culinary geniuses, who have their five-star restaurants or television shows. The top dogs of fine cuisine. But an Alpha who likes to dawdle in the kitchen as a simple hobby? Ignis has been teased for it more times than he could count, even his mother and father poking lighthearted jabs at him whenever they found him nestled in front of the stove. He almost expects the same from the Prince, but his reaction so far has Ignis hoping otherwise. 

“Funny,” Noctis says, this time revealing a full and warm smile. His eyes crinkle at its corners, and Ignis wants to believe it’s from a genuine smile and not from some practiced sincerity. “I’m not that great in the kitchen. Can make some decent eggs and pancakes, throw store bought cookies in the oven if I’m feeling it. Just not really into it.”

“One can’t be a master of everything, Your Highness. You seem to have picked up gardening, however?”

“Gardening? Not at all, that’s dad’s shtick. I was just helping.”

“Oh.”

“I like to get more down and dirty.” 

Ignis almost chokes on his eggs, but as quickly as he catches himself, he doesn’t escape the amused tilt of the Prince’s brow. His Highness doesn’t say anything more on that topic, but Ignis knows it’ll surely come up again. He isn’t sure whether to take it as it is or as an innuendo; he’s not even sure which one he’d prefer it to be.

“And just call me Noctis, by the way.”

Turns out, Noctis’ words are more literal than Ignis would ever imagine them to be because the next day, he’s fetched for again and guided outside to the training fields. He sees Prince Noctis standing in the middle, facing a uniformed Glaive.

Ignis can’t help but look on in sheer terror as Noctis flies across the training yard and skids his back against the dirt and gravel. But he hops right back up like a champion, sparing just a second to spit out blood and dust onto the hard ground, and brandishes his training sword before chucking it at the Glaive. He fizzles out of reality the second his sword leaves his hands, and Ignis _ thinks _ he can see the ghostly blue trail after the blade. When Ignis blinks, he sees Noctis popping back into existence, pressing his sword against his opponent’s kukris in a showdown of strength. 

There’s a short stare-off, each of them grounding their feet into the dirt and shoving their weapons into one another, pushing the limit to see who breaks their stance first. Ignis watches with bated breath, hands clenching the arms of his plastic lawn chair, and he leans forward in his seat in suspense. 

His Majesty, flanked by Clarus Amicitia and Cor Leonis, quietly sips on his mimosa and looks far more peachy than a father watching his Omega son brawl against a deadly Alpha should look. The Immortal and Shield don’t even bat an eye, simply trading swigs from a dark beer they pass off to each other. 

“Money’s on junior,” Cor says, handing the now half-empty bottle to Clarus. 

“O-ho, someone changed their tune from last week.”

“What can I say? His Highness kicked that Luche fellow to the bleachers.”

“Fair enough. Guess I’ll bet on Ulric.”

King Regis clears his throat, and looks every ounce of a proud father watching his boy beat the ever living shit out of a soldier. “I’ll pretend I don’t hear you two making bets over my dear son.”

“Oh, please, don’t act like you didn’t rake in some pocket money over that training session.” Clarus lightly clinks his beer against King Regis' drink, appraising him with an upward quirk of his brow. 

His Majesty retaliates by snatching the bottle out of his Shield's hand and downing the rest of it in one go. Cor Leonis huffs out a laugh while Clarus Amicitia huffs out a grumble. 

But Ignis Scientia only feels faint. 

And, well, shamefully turned on. He isn’t sure how to process that. Bearing witness to an Omega who could actually kick his ass and make him eat dirt should terrify him. His whole life, he believed Noctis to be some frail prince made of spun glass — beautiful and delicate, showcased through rare snapshots and surrounded with all manners of security. 

He and the entire world grew up on the idea of a sweet and quiet boy, but watching Noctis narrowly avoid a boot to his face and counter with a lance to Ulric’s ass — where did that lance even come from? — it’s safe to say they were all fed damn lies. 

Noctis rips through the very fabric of space, tearing its seams and bursting them into bright blue ashes, looking all so alive like the flames burning in him. Or maybe that’s the actual fire spreading across the ground when he lobbed that glowing magic sphere. 

“Cheater!” Nyx yells, hopping away from the dying fire spell. “No magic!”

“Screw the rules, I’m royalty!”

Noctis laughs, vibrant and full, and he chases after the man in bursts of blue and white. He’s dirty and battered, covered in sweat and scratches, and no doubt he’ll have more than just a few bruises to show for; but Ignis thinks he looks radiant, here in the open air and in tattered clothes no prince should be caught wearing. 

Ignis isn’t sure what it is, but something _ clicks _ and the pieces quietly fall together as he watches the dance of steel and magic race across the field. He imagines all the suitors before him, bearing gifts of flowers and perfumes to lay at Noctis’ feet. They treat him delicately, just how society tells them how Omegas out to be handled, and try to carry him like a priceless Faberge egg — dressed in jewels and gold so soft he’d scratch at the lightest touch. They talk of nothing but drab things, perhaps politics and alliances if they’re bold enough, and domestic things a coddled prince might like. Tame hobbies and crafts, sewing or golf and the like. 

And he imagines Noctis looking absolutely bored out of his mind, listening to haughty Alphas speaking of their accomplishments and trophies and useless promises that are ultimately empty in the end. As a test or maybe out of his own amusement, Noctis brings them out just like this, to shock or awe, to show he’ll have none of their cooing nonsense. And the results? Ignis can think of a few. The “Alpha” Alpha, horrified and angered at the lack of modicum, refuses to marry an Omega who does not know his place. The “White Knight” Alpha who jumps to his poor Prince’s rescue, demands to fight in his stead and protect him from all harm (only to have his own rear handed to him). And of course, all the confused ones who have no idea what to make of the situation and decide to just leave. 

Ignis doesn’t realize the spar is over until the Kingsglaive Captain blows his whistle, and the sharp shrill and the hoots of onlookers pulls his mind back to the field. Noctis has Nyx Ulric pinned to the dirt, straddling his chest and holding a kukri to the man’s neck. Ignis thinks he’s won, until he sees the Glaive holding the broken blade of a sword at Noctis’ heart as well. 

Titus Drautos announces a tie, and they both drop their weapons as a result. Noctis rolls off and onto his back, chest heaving as he desperately sucks in air, and splays his arms out on either side of him. A hand hits Ulric in the face as he stretches out, but the man doesn’t complain and only has the strength to focus on his own breathing as well. Off on the side, Ignis sees trainees and guards pass coin around, having made bets of their own, the disgruntled losers paying their toll to the triumphant winners. 

When Noctis lolls his head over to look at King Regis, he flashes a tired but satisfied grin. Ignis isn’t sure what sort of expression His Majesty makes — he’s sure it’s of approval judging by the warm chuckle he hears — since his eyes are glued to just how _ radiant _ the battered Prince looks. Noctis looks utterly at home and in comfort, covered in dirt and sweat and bruises. Ignis has only seen tabloid snapshots that depict him as some melancholy little boy, scared of the world and quiet in his loneliness. 

Noctis looks far more lovely like this, he thinks, looking exhausted but alive and happy. Ignis gives him a weak thumbs up when he looks his way, and he ignores the extra little thump of his heart when he hears Noctis laugh for the first time. 

“The Kingsglaive is made up of all Alphas.”

It comes out of the blue, when they sit for some tea in the outer garden. They had been talking of Altissia — Ignis of his summer vacation spent with his nose in their recipe books and mouth on a tasting spoon, Noctis of his diplomatic trip with his father to discuss new trade routes with the madame secretary — when he washes down a sweet biscuit with a sip of black tea to suddenly utter the fact. 

Ignis never gave it any thought, but it certainly makes sense to him. Alphas, the “stronger” gender, the protectors and hunters since the days of old. Perhaps some Betas could make it within their ranks, but having an all-Alpha unit isn’t beyond reason. He humors Noctis and takes the bait. “And you are sharing this with me because…?”

“Guess why.”

“Alphas are the warriors, the fighters. Or so goes the rules.”

“Or so goes the rules.”

“Well, you’ve proven that some of these rules can be broken. And I like to believe you aren’t the _ sole _ anomaly in the entirety of Eos.” 

Only two weeks since he’s started his courting, and he’s learned more about Noctis than he ever thought possible. The Prince is… eccentric, to put it. He’s something of an innocent brat, childish in that he’ll push and prod at his dinner vegetables but responsible where it counts. More than once he’s sought out Ignis for some excuse in favor of running away from papers and documents in want of his reading and signature, but he’ll promptly excuse himself to resume his duties once he finds his time is up. 

His cooking skills are rather poor, as he’s once stated himself, and if left on his own, Ignis thinks his diet would end up disastrous. During a midnight hour, he once found Noctis sitting on the floor of a kitchen scooping peanut butter directly out of the jar and onto some tortilla chips like a little gremlin child. Yet his one saving grace is his skills with fish; he has his own set of recipes Ignis has never tried before. Recipes he quickly jotted down when Noctis invited him to a private lake, where he rolled up his pants and dipped his feet into the water, casting his fishing line off the low pier. 

One would think a posh prince would rather be caught dead than wade through the murky waters of an old lake to pull out a three-foot fish, flapping and splashing and with slimy scales. Or that he’d rather read and write in his air-conditioned study instead of joining the royal guards and glaives in their training regiments, preferring to keep his manicured hands soft and clean instead of calloused and bruised. 

Ignis knows he must have said something right, and he keeps his self-preening to the minimum when Noctis grins. It’s slow like the rising beat of drums leading up to a grand reveal, and he certainly gets a prize when the smile parts for a bark of that laughter again. He wonders if the twenty-four suitors before him ever got the chance to hear it. 

“You,” Noctis says, lifting his cup in a toast to Ignis, “know how to flatter, don’t you? Playing all your cards right.”

Ignis wants to interject and explain his words weren’t as planned as Noctis thinks them to be; he only said what was in his mind, not stringing words together to garner any favor. But before he has the chance, Noctis steers the conversation away as do people of his rank do, eloquently enough that Ignis forgets what they had been talking about in the first place. 

It’s when he gets ready for bed, staring in the bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth, that he realizes Noctis never really answered his question. He’ll breach that topic come the morning, should he remember to, but sleep comes easy and far too quickly before he can pin the idea to the corkboard of his mind. 

He wakes bright and early, and it turns out he doesn't need to remember. Noctis waits for him at the Citadel steps, leaning against the driver side of the famous Star of Lucis, an absolute gorgeous work of art and taking after its name, and he looks up from his phone to flag down Ignis. 

"What's the occasion?" Ignis asks, strapping his seat belt in. 

"Gonna show you something interesting."

That "something" turns out to be somewhere in the Kingsglaive headquarters. Ignis' nose twitches at the heavy scent in the air, the unmistakable cologne of _ Alpha _ that permeates through every wall and floor of the grand building. Noctis, though, seems perfectly at home and saunters on through, occasionally slowing to wave or pass a word or two to some friendly Glaives. A few even stop to say hello to Ignis, and he greets them in turn. 

"Do you feel that?" Noctis asks, guiding them down a corridor. 

And Ignis does. The closer they get, the more it speeds towards him like a train barreling down the track to run him over. It’s oppressive, heavy and hostile but tragic above all; he can almost _ taste _ the anguish in the air. 

It’s the pheromones of a full-blown Alpha’s rut. Not just one Alpha but at least a _ dozen _ he realizes as Noctis pushes open the double doors of the medical bay. 

Sirens go off in his head, fearing for the Omega’s safety among a pack of Alphas, and he jerks his eyes over to Noctis only to see him wear a face of utter determination and eyes of sympathy. Ignis keeps his mouth shut and his hands to himself, fighting the urge to grab Noctis and run out of there, as he reminds himself just who this young prince is and what he’s capable of. He’s seen Noctis train and fight against the Kingsglaive themselves, and Noctis carries himself with such confidence and faith that Ignis chooses to believe in him as well. 

“The Kingsglaive are all Alphas,” Noctis says, and Ignis remembers their talk from yesterday, “because they get the worst of it.”

At the sound of his voice, all eyes hone in on Noctis. Ignis expects that voracious, insatiable hunger to overtake them; but while there is hunger, it is a hunger for _ comfort, _like that of a child frightened by a nightmare seeking the safety of its parents. There are whispers, soft pleas of woe and heartbreak, that even chip away at Ignis’ own heart. 

Noctis sits by the closest bed, where a man covered in sweat curls in on himself, fists clenching and unclenching the rough sheets. “It’s okay, I’m here. You’re okay, _ you’re safe. _”

And as Noctis coos and holds the Glaive’s hand, a thumb softly stroking over his fingers, Ignis feels the air shift and turn, the stormy weight of the Alphas dispersing like morning mist. A different scent overtakes the entire stretch of the bay — if not the entire floor of headquarters — and even Ignis falls prey to the lulling warmth that covers him, akin to an anxiety blanket hugging itself around his shoulders. He feels… protected, strangely enough. It takes him a moment too long to discover this scent is undeniably Noctis’. 

Ignis breaks himself out of the trance and blinks himself awake, and he catches the glance Noctis takes at him. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights and the haze of pheromones, but he almost looks _ glowing. _Literally.

“A lot of them are still traumatised, seeing their friends and family killed and their homes overrun. And the hormones just make the nightmares all the more real to them, and they’re forced to relive those memories again. It’s shitty, but we can at least help them through it.” 

Noctis explains, in a quiet voice as to not disturb the Glaives, how the ruts and hormones make for not only a violent mix but a tragic one. How they work as triggers, unearthing their darkest memories and forcing them to suffer through the pain of death and loss. How King Regis, founder of the force known as the Kingsglaive, discovered the side-effects of acting as a conduit and sharing the royal family’s magic with this small army. How both father and son could serve their soldiers in turn for their loyalty and sacrifices. 

“We protect them just as much as they protect us. It’s a king’s duty to look after his people, even soldiers — especially soldiers.” 

It’s an hour later, Noctis driving them back to the Citadel and in the privacy of the car, when he explains why he breached the subject and the reason for the field trip. He looks almost forlorn, not for himself but for the Glaives suffering through their inner demons. 

“Dad shares his powers with the Kingsglaive, every single one of them. We’re not really sure about the details, but through some weird Crystal magic voodoo, he sort of has this… ‘pseudo’ bond with them.” He waves a hand in the air, making some wishy-washy gesture but makes sure to keep his other hand steady on the wheel. Even if the unmistakable Star belongs to one Prince, royalty must obey traffic laws. “It’s not really an Omega-Alpha bond, but some of it’s the same. That’s how he’s able to keep them from diving too far into their ruts or bring them out of their dark spaces. And sometimes when it gets too much, I can come in.” 

But it’s when he reaches a red traffic light that he wrinkles his nose in contempt, making a face as if he just downed a too bitter cough syrup. “A couple suitors didn’t like that idea, of the king sharing this link with all of them. I’ll be king someday and take on that responsibility, but I guess they wanted me to be one hundred percent exclusive or something.” 

“I think it’s admirable.” Ignis didn’t really mean to say it aloud, not until he saw Noctis’ sour expression and decided he deserved to hear it. He didn’t even think he himself deserved to see all that had happened, to witness how almost intimate the picture Noctis and the Glaives painted. The suitors before him must all be fools then, to think about selfish desires toward a softhearted (yet strongwilled) Prince on the cusp of adulthood. 

“Do you? Thanks, Ignis, really.”

Ignis says nothing about the sliver of vulnerability in that tone and merely hums in acknowledgment. He wonders, during their quiet drive back, if his initial theory was wrong. If the reason for so many suitors turned and rejected wasn’t actually because of the Prince after all, but because the twenty-four before him couldn’t see past what society has fed them and the conventionalization of an Omega prince. 

_ ‘Idiots, _ ’ he thinks to himself, _ ‘and I thought myself blind with how strong my glasses must be.’ _

“For the love of the gods, would you kindly _ please _ stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“You know very well what I mean. That pressure you regard me with, akin to an Alpha challenging for his territory. As if you’ll eat me alive before you even bother to skin me first! Do you know what that does to my instincts? How they scream at me to retaliate and brawl? I am practically battling myself for my own control, and it is an uphill battle I assure you.” 

Noctis only offers a grin, infuriatingly wide and amused.

All Ignis had been doing was admiring the royal library, particularly their impressive collection of classic literature, minding his own business and perusing the back cover of an anthology, when Noctis came strolling in. He arrived near silently, save for the footsteps that made a beeline toward Ignis with such precision, as if the towering bookshelves may as well be invisible. 

It would have been fine, except for that suffocating aura Noctis sent out, filling the air with the presence of a hunter searching for its target. The target being Ignis, of course. 

“So you finally mentioned it. I was wondering when you’d finally say something.” Noctis tilts his head, looking the picture of innocence when he's actually guilty of everything. 

Ignis shuts the book with such force that it resounds off the library walls, and he shoves it back into its proper space on the shelf. He plucks his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he sucks in a deep breath then slowly exhales; when he opens his eyes, he sees Noctis still sporting his shit-eating grin. 

“Are you satisfied now? To know you’ve riled me up so,” Ignis sighs, putting his glasses back on. “Honestly, I don’t know what to make of it. Have I done something to earn your ire? Do you abhor the idea of courtship so much you’d like to scare me off instead? I may not have the finest qualifications to try for your hand, but I daresay my company hasn’t been all that unpleasant —”

“Woah, woah. Slow down there, Ignis.” Noctis lifts his hands in a gesture of appeasement, though the little laugh in his voice almost makes Ignis think otherwise. “Sorry to say this, but I was genuinely wondering how’d you react. All my suitors kept getting paranoid, wondering if my Shield was hiding around the corner and secretly threatening them, or maybe I really wasn’t an Omega after all. Some of them got really snappy, almost violent. But you pretty much rolled with it until now. I’m surprised you lasted this long.” 

A test, then. Noctis posed him with a test, and Ignis must have failed with his reaction. He’s already thinking of the things he’ll need to pack and how he’ll get his laundry the morning maids took the liberty of washing, but above all he can’t help but feel the disappointment rising in his chest. He rather liked Noctis’ company and all the quirks and habits that comes with him, each a new little fun surprise to learn and appreciate. 

“But anyway, I think you’re plenty qualified, so don’t knock yourself out just yet, silly.” Then, Noctis places a hand on his arm. If his words didn’t pull Ignis back, then that touch certainly does. His eyes are warm, no sign of dismissal or frown of disapproval to betray his consolation. 

“I… Pardon?” Ignis silently curses the way his voice goes just a bit weak. 

“I _ said _ I like having you around.”

“Oh.”

Well, crisis averted, he supposes. But it’s only after another laugh when an attendant fetches Noctis at the King’s request and leaves, that Ignis realizes the weight of the Prince’s words: he liked having Ignis around. 

Ignis learns a lot during his one month stay. He feels like it’s all sacred knowledge to be kept within the Citadel vaults, yet a revelation the entirety of Eos should have the decency of knowing. 

Noctis isn’t a fragile Omega waiting for his dashing Alpha to sweep him off his feet, to promise him loyalty and devotion and a lifetime of protection. Because one, Noctis already has all that. He has the love and allegiance of his friends, the cooing and awwing of an entire kingdom, and a special military force that will risk life and limb to keep him and his father safe. And two, Ignis is sure Noctis can make any Alpha tuck their tail in between their legs and run for the hills; he's an absolute war machine even without the kingdom's special forces. 

Ignis clicks the locks of his suitcase and sighs, looking dejected at the band around his finger. He’ll have to return it, now that his month-long trial is over and both King and Prince have said nothing of further courting. He honestly enjoyed his time at the Citadel, learning and even laughing with the Prince and discovering some of the quirks that make him unique. At the very least, Noctis has given him a new perspective to regard Omegas with. Broaden his horizons, even. 

He isn’t bitter, but he’ll miss it. Miss what exactly, though, he can’t say. He knows it’s not the luxuries the palace lifestyle affords him, but rather something of Noctis. Perhaps he’ll miss the company, his frame of mind and the way he ticks. Or maybe — just maybe — this particular fondness Ignis has only recently acknowledged. He doesn’t want to say it’s love, but it’s certainly something that could bloom given time and nurture. 

Well, better to nip it now before it takes root. 

Ignis is on his way to the throne room, to give his respects to the King and thank him for the opportunity, but he halts in his tracks when he sees His Majesty make his way toward him. Noctis trails after him but picks up the pace when he spots Ignis, and his bright smile tugs at Ignis' heart in the most bittersweet way. A shame he won't be able to see it anymore. 

"Your Majesty, Your Highness," Ignis greets, lightly bowing to them both. He slips the ring from his middle finger and presents for Noctis to take back, trying to not mind the feeling of absence it leaves behind. "My month is over, but I am greatly honored and humbled for the time I was given. It is my sincerest wish His Highness finds his future consort, and I hope for nothing but happiness to you and your dearest."

King Regis looks… almost confused. He regards the ring as if it's some foreign object and he has no idea what to do with it. But then, he looks over to Noctis and heaves a long-suffering sigh.

_ "Son," _he says, shaking his head, "You were to tell him yesterday." 

"I forgot! I mean, I was going to but I got distracted and Prompto came over with the newest Flame Insignia and I've been _ dying _ to play it." 

King Regis actually rolls his eyes at that, much to Noctis' frustration it appears. But Ignis is too distracted about this thing he was apparently supposed to be told yesterday to really acknowledge that _ King Regis rolled his eyes. _

Noctis, at least, catches on and quickly fumbles to take the ring from Ignis, but he keeps a hold on his hand. 

"This month was great, Ignis. This might be a low bar of expectation, but I just needed to be sure you weren't some arrogant asshole. And congratulations! You passed." He says it so naturally, as if he’s passing off some paper certificate and not say, recognition as a possible future consort. 

Ignis, suddenly, feels very weak in the knees, and he suspects he's only able to keep standing through Noctis' light hand on his, which is slowly and deliberately turning and searching for Ignis' ring finger. He tries to ground himself, focusing on the warmth of Noctis' hand and the genuine smile that dazzles like stardust, and not on the heavy thud of his own heart beating in his ears. 

It's a dream, he foolishly thinks. He's still sleeping and loathing the morning he'll have to prepare for his return home, and sad enough that he conjures a fantastical dream. But everything is too real for this to be a trick of his mind. He sees King Regis standing behind Noctis, every gleam and glint of his polished buttons and chains, and the warmth in his eyes and the smile of a doting father, and Ignis knows he can’t be making that up. 

And Noctis, cheeks tinted just a soft dust of pink, lips pulled in a soft and slightly embarrassed smile, looks up at him with such hope in his eyes it almost hurts Ignis. When he finds that ring finger, he carefully slides the ring back on — the same ring that once sat on Ignis’ middle finger and marked him as a _ candidate. _The same ring Ignis, only a moment ago, returned to the Prince because he believed his time was up and the next suitor would arrive shortly. 

"You spent a month courting me. Now it's my turn to court you," Noctis says, as if Ignis would ever say no, "So what do you say, Ignis Scientia? Will you accept?" 

Yet another loop Ignis is tossed into. Alphas court, not Omegas. But he should have expected as much from Noctis and his family's quaint traditions. He knows there will be more surprises down the road, more breaking of worldviews and making of new ones, but Ignis wouldn't have it any other way. 

"But of course."

"Great, how about a fishing date?" 

"Only if you guide me through one of your recipes." 

He finalizes their terms by bringing Noctis' hand to his lips, lightly ghosting a kiss across his knuckles, and his Prince smiles just a bit wider at it. In the background, he hears King Regis mutter, in fondness, something about finally finding someone after all this time, before walking off and leaving them be. 

"Deal."


End file.
